


i don't want to live forever

by orphan_account



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Character Death, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, You Have Been Warned, i have been told you may need a stuffed animal to prepare yourself, the first three is where it hurts, the last five are just mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 08:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14973503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sumo is the first to go.





	i don't want to live forever

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by this http://afraid-of-thunder.tumblr.com/post/175012604040 lovely, very sad comic. I made myself really sad writing this. I'll edit it in the morning when the tears stop coming. I am so, so sorry.
> 
> Edit: Now has been edited slightly and tags updated a bit, nothing major though! I'm still sorry though.

Sumo is the first to go.

As time crawls on, he gets older. Slower. He never was the quickest dog, preferring a warm lap and a hand to nibble on rather than chasing balls in the park, but he himself knows that he is starting to slow down. He’s a good dog, _the best dog_ , Hank says, as he watches Connor finish patting down the soil. He is loyal, and warm, and was the only thing keeping Hank around until Connor came around. And then Connor stayed around. Sumo liked Connor too, he didn’t always understand him, how his pets were always so careful, or why he would sit and watch Hank sleep, instead of sleeping himself, but he liked him, liked to lay across his legs because he would never, ever move, and that he always remembered to feed him. Sumo knew that, in the end, as long as Hank had Connor, he’d be alright. His work was done.

And so, on a rainy day in February, he left, peacefully, as the sun rose, with his two favorite people by his side.

They don’t get another dog.

Years pass.

The world gets brighter, inch by trembling inch. Tensions ease with Russia, Androids become full-fledged citizens, unemployment declines. The first cross-species marriage is officiated, a human artist and her android wife. Markus and Carl spend their lives together, the rest of the older man’s frail days quietly inhabited by painting, talking, and playing chess. He is the first transplant of a human consciousness into an android body. Kara, Luther, and Alice live on a small farm in rural Ontario, helping fellow androids ease out of their original programming. Hank’s hair is almost entirely white now, the silver fading like all the hurt is getting washed away. One day, Connor needs a spare part, a small thing, a joint for his finger. He cannot find one. The RK800 line began and ended with him. He accepts this. Each of these small victories eases the doubt that still sometimes lurks in Connor’s mind. He did do the right thing.

Hank retires. _Too soon,_ if you ask him, _too damn late_ , if Captain Fowler has anything to say about it, and _just about the right time_ , if you ask Connor. If you know Connor, you can tell he wishes they had more time together. Hank doesn’t just give up without knowing it’s already far passed too late.

Hank starts to slow down, too. Connor sees it in every movement, every breath too slow to intake, every groan when he gets up from his chair, every day spent mostly in bed. He tries to raise him like the son he never got to see grow up, but there is wisdom in his boys' eyes that he can’t teach, and he can’t begin to understand. This is the most parental thing he is gifted with, the knowledge that his son had learned things he did not teach him. Hank is very proud of his son. They listen to music together, Hank explaining all the emotions that run through him when he hears the frazzled brassy notes of Billie Holiday or the energy of an old swing band. Connor nods, and smiles. He does not understand just exactly how the music means that much to him, but seeing the smile on Hank’s face when talking about his high school prom and the shiver that ran down his spine when he first danced to Frank Sinatra is enough to know that if Hank is happy, he is happy. Hank tries to teach Connor how to meet girls, _or guys! Whatever your preference is, kid. You need someone for when this old sack of shit stops moving_. Some days he just lays in his room, holding Connor’s hand, feeling the chasm between them that no declaration of parenthood can gap. He is human. And he is dying.

He starts forgetting things, too, as the years go by, but not his stubbornness. Connor pleads, begs, uses every last trick in his book to try to let him authorize a transfer into a new body. _Nah, son, I’m too old for that shit. I’d rather just let it happen_. Connor knows he could force it, legally, he’s his son, his closest relative. Hank knows this too.

Connor stops asking.

Eventually, his old body starts misbehaving enough that, when they go to visit the park and the old willow tree where Sumo rests, Connor has to manhandle him into a wheelchair. It is a battle every time, of varying proportions. The worst days are when Hank just lets him do it, eyes miles away as he eases him down into the chair. They go almost every morning, and sit for hours, watching the people around them, two outdated models, too tired of the fight anymore to stand against the tide, content to just watch the world move on. Connor’s thirium regulator makes a ticking sound some days, reaching the end of its warranty. Hank’s face is more wrinkles and age spots than anything else nowadays, and every so often Connor adds a few to his own face to match. Every hurt that’s happened in the last twenty years has been borne equally, might as well they both share the marks it has left.

One morning, Hank is taking a longer time at his routine shave than usual, and at Connor’s gentle knock, he lets him in without needing to push. He is crying, _my fucking hand is shaking too much to hold the goddamn razor straight_ , so Connor picks it up from the sink where it was abandoned, and finishes the job, hand steady as it always has been. As it always will be. Hank spends the rest of the day on the couch, Connor next to him, artificial head on the too-organic, wasting away shoulder, a soft blanket covering both of them.

_I miss Sumo._

_I know, dad. I miss him too._

Hank refuses to go the hospital. He is weak, old, sick, too many years spent trying to kill himself has paid off, and now he has to live with the consequences. _Not for too much longer, eh Connor?_ The doctors, out of Hank’s earshot, give the prognosis to Connor, how much time they have left together, treatment options. They remind him there is always time to transfer his consciousness into a fresh android body, so he will never need to deal with sickness or death or anything of the sort. They cannot say the same for Connor. He quietly ushers them out, thanks them for their time. He always knew how it was going to end. At home, quietly. Loved.

Hank is tired, it is nearly morning, a small oxygen tank beside him, eyes milky, staring up at his son.

_Did you mean what you said, at the bridge, before I knew you were my kid? Do you really think there is no heaven for androids?_

_I hope so, Hank, I hope so._

Hank breathes, smiles. Squeezes Connor’s hand tight.

He does not breathe again.

_I guess I’m going to find out._


End file.
